


Juvenile product of the working class

by thesmokinggnu



Category: Pride (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 01:26:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5186948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesmokinggnu/pseuds/thesmokinggnu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steph lasts the whole year without making any jokes about sheep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Juvenile product of the working class

Accrington is grim.

It’s the kind of place you pass through if you can: the terraced houses stretching out with terrifying leaden uniformity either side of the high street, while grateful trains escape into the looming wild of the Pennines on one side or the bright lights of Manchester on the other.

Above the square backyard behind Steph’s uncle’s house the bare bones of the hills are tipped with frost. Shivering into her leather jacket she blows out smoke and stamps her feet on the cracked paving slabs. The thought of the browning Christmas tree in the sitting room and cold Boxing Day sandwiches almost takes the chill out of the air.

Pride has a strange meaning in that part of East Lancashire: the less than glorious football team eternally eclipsed by Manchester and the hated Blackburn, but where the fight is worth more than victory in the end anyway. It has to be really; trading on the echoes of thriving industry that died when the loom shuttles stopped.

Bricks from Accrington were used for the foundations of the Empire State Building, so there’s always that. Steph isn’t sure whether it’s inspiring or depressing that Accrington’s claim to fame is 3000 miles away and largely forgotten. If there’s some kind of axis of distance and  local infamy, maybe there’s a happy compromise in London being remembered perhaps once a year at Christmas.

A robin on the high brick wall cocks its head at her quizzically.

Steph stubs out her fag on the windowsill but doesn’t go inside.  “You what, mate?”

The bird looks nonplussed, but in fairness it’s not as though it has a lot to work with. Its plumage stands out against hillside, red as the glowing bars on her mum’s electric fire. She’d burned her hand on it once when she was a kid, drawn moth-like to the only light and heat in the drab front room.

She turns finally, squares her shoulders, and walks back inside.

1981 is going to be her year.

 

 

*

 

 

“Fucking scabs!”

“Tory scum!”

It’s the first time Steph has been to Wales. The mountains are higher and harsher, with scars of loose scree, and road signs are almost taking the piss – no-one needs that many syllables. However, she can see her granddad in the helpless fury of the old men lining the roadside, and her mother’s ramrod spine in unflinching floral print housedresses.

In spite of everything she can’t resist the strange heady feeling of being onside, like her first Pride filled with all that brazen hope of thousands singing at her back. Better a dyke than a scab; better to be called a deviant than a Tory.

 

Gail’s footsteps creak across the floorboards upstairs and Steph shuffles into the kitchen, leaning against the table and trying to appear casual, as though she hasn’t just heard the older woman berating her husband for embarrassing her in front of their guests.

“I’m so sorry; I don’t know what you must think.” Gail’s hands fidget, smoothing the fabric of her dress.

“It’s fine.” Steph replies honestly. Of all the apologies she feels herself owed – there are plenty – this will never be one. “Really, I don’t mind. At least he’s not too heavy – if you’d have married that Carl fella then we’d be fucked.”

“I think if I’d have married Carl bloody Evans I’d have bigger problems to worry about. Insanity, for one.”

The older woman stands to retrieve the bottle of medicinal brandy from where it sits on the countertop casting an amber shadow in the streetlamp. “You’ll have a tipple, will you?”

“I’m offended you even need to ask, Gail.”

The chink their glasses make together is swallowed in the darkened kitchen.

“Lloniannau.”

In her slightly inebriated state Steph takes a second to realise this is probably Welsh. “Slàinte.” It’s as close as she’s got to hand.

“Where was it you said you’re from? You’re not Irish are you?”

“Nah, Accrington. Think Manchester but without the 20th century. Although to be fair I’ve not been back in a while, so you never know - a bit might have trickled in when they weren’t looking.”

“Ah.” Gail nods understandingly, and it should be patronising. When they’d first arrived in Dulais Steph had no idea what the bloody hell any of them were saying, but now as the warm brandy settles in her stomach she feels far more generously inclined towards that accent that dips and rises impulsively without any logical pattern.

“I don’t miss it,” Steph continues: it seems important that Gail should know. “New Order played the Roundhouse in London last month so there’s not even that. It’s all fucking one way traffic, Gail.” Her fingers twitch towards the packet of cigs in her pocket before she remembers that her hosts hadn’t said anything about smoking in the house. She had blown the smoke covertly out of the bathroom window that morning and enjoyed the sight of Bromley in his pants in the garden next door furtively retrieving his clothes from the washing line where Sian had optimistically hung them.

“At least you managed to get out.”  Gail’s looking at her now, steady and serious while she toys idly with her wedding ring. “I think that’s brave of anyone.”

“Dulais is nice, though. It’s very…” _Small. Damp. I don’t know how you can breathe._ “… Green.” It sounds feeble even to Steph and she tops up their glasses in apology wondering how they came to this. She’s not normally someone people choose to validate their life choices.

Gail swallows half of hers in one gulp. “I don’t want you to think I’m comparing, mind. I know there’s plenty of others have it worse. I know I should be grateful the worst Alan does after a few is turn into a dead weight and ruin other people’s carpets.”

“You should take him round that Maureen’s house.” Steph jokes weakly, trying to steer the conversation back around to anything else.

Gail’s glass is empty again and she won’t be swayed. “I suppose that’s one thing you don’t have to worry about. Not that it counts for much given everything else of course.”

“You shouldn’t have to be grateful for that though, Gail, none of us should.” Steph’s leaning forward now. The other burning feeling is back, the one that has nothing to do with alcohol. “It’s like with _us_ ,” she makes a vague gesture towards the street outside where the LGSM bus is parked, “we’re  officially not criminals for existing anymore, but we still have to put up with shitheads throwing bricks at us and they expect us to be grateful. We’re talking about rights not fucking privileges!”

Steph doesn’t even know why she’s saying all this. Mark’s the one who does the speeches; taking on the world with his dimples and unshakeable belief in what could be if only people stopped acting like such self-interested twats for five minutes and just _listened_. She envies him for that, his determination to believe the best of people. Mike had seen it straight away. The best she can do is stand on the side-lines and snark like she doesn’t need his belief anyway.

Gail reaches across and squeezes her hand firmly. “One way traffic, Steph.” She whispers even though they’re alone. “One way traffic.” Steph sniffs and wills away the prickling in the corners of her eyes. They hold hands over the table for a long moment, fingers twisted together so at a glance she can’t tell whose are whose.

 

 

*

 

 

In the end she spends Christmas at Jonathan and Gethin’s: all Lost Boys together. And a dyke.

They don’t mention Accrington in the papers (it’s not nearly important enough), but she hears about the divided Lancashire unions: pickets turned to running battles with the police at Salford and thinks of her dad down the working men’s club, slouched smokily in the corner clutching his pint like a talisman. It’s an image she conjures in her mind (women have never been allowed in), extrapolated from long evenings silent in his armchair, the glowing cigarette tip the only light in the room after the meter’s run out.

Mike hands her a copy of the Lancashire Telegraph during a quiet moment, just the two of them in the hallway. The Yorkshire unions have arrived to reinforce Salford, and she’s struck by something Cliff said. It’s not the Great Atlantic Fault – hard to believe the cold grey North should have anything so grand – but something, some shared sense of grand defiance, brought them over the Pennines nonetheless.

“Have you heard from anyone?” Mike went back last February when his grandmother died, for the first time since he’d walked away at 18. He’d told her how he arrived late to the service then snuck out first so they wouldn’t see him.

“Nah, I’ve not asked.”

“Good thing you didn’t go into the factory after all, eh.” She has to stand on tiptoe to bump her shoulder against his. “We might get treated like fucking Lepers but think of our career prospects. We could have been good little breeders and Thatcher would have fucked us over anyway.”

“I know, but think of it like this, Steph: for the first time in well, ever, they’re fucking terrified of us.” He stabs with the newspaper triumphantly with his finger.

Steph raises a sceptical eyebrow. “Oh yeah, you know I just thinking the other day that those coppers looked ready to wet themselves at the sight of Jonathan in his sequins. If you’re telling me that was fear then I’ll have to take your word on it, pal.”

“No, I’m serious.” She could tell he was – that earnest fervour was back in his eyes. He reminded her of Mark when he was like this. “You saw all the police they were bringing in to Wales from Bristol, and apparently half the Midlands forces are camped out in Sheffield. They’ll have to re-open the pits eventually if only because the NUM are less hassle underground.”

“Well, as long as we’re not getting buried as well.”

Jonathan calls from the kitchen that lunch is ready, and Mike slings an arm around her shoulders. “They could never bury your sunny optimism, Steph.” He has the same wry smile he wore when she turned up on his doorstep in Brixton with mousey brown hair and a duffel bag on New Year’s Day four years ago.

“Shut up. Twat.”

“Pillock.”

 

 

*

 

 

After the concert they head out into Soho.

Bromley pulls, and she doesn’t know if this in itself is more surprising than how bizarrely maternal it makes her feel. She decides to switch to vodka just to be on the safe side.

She’s not sure that Soho will ever be quite the same after the Powys invasion of ’85. If she were in any state to be honest with herself Steph wouldn’t be so sure that she would either.

“You know what I was when I met my husband?”

Steph’s limited experience as a rural Welsh marriage counsellor has not prepared her for this conversation, but luckily reliable alcohol is there to make up the difference. Or at least hopefully ensure that neither of them will remember it. Stella probably carries pamphlets around for this very scenario, like some kind of lesbian missionary.

She hazards a guess. “Drunk?”

“16.”

Gail’s voice has the tone of alcohol induced revelation. Probably just best to let her get it all out, like a controlled explosion. Steph mentally saves up the mining reference to use later on someone sober enough to appreciate it.

“I’ve always thought sex was only for the men anyway. We just put up with it, don’t we?”

Alright, enough of that. She spins Gail around deftly so they’re facing each other under the pooling amber light of the streetlamp.

“Ok, I will listen to a certain amount of drunken bollocks, Gail, but sex is not just for the men; it’s for the women too. Believe me.”

Until the strikes started Steph’s personal political philosophy hadn’t evolved a great deal beyond ‘Fuck You, Thatcher’, but this was a broader cause she could get behind: Liberty, Equality, and Semi-Regular Orgasms for the Women of South Wales. Fucking Arthur Scargill, missing the point as usual. It was a genuine mystery how people felt safe living in a village above explosive equipment under the supervision of men who apparently couldn’t locate the clitoris with a map and a fucking magnifying glass. Then again this was Wales - maybe the vowels put them off.

Before Steph can elucidate this theory Gail’s lips are on hers, warm and searching and insistent and entirely the last thing she would have expected from this woman who is forever underestimated.

The brick wall pressing suddenly into her back is oddly comforting, being the only familiar part of this whole no-longer conversation. Steph digs her fingers into it to stop herself grabbing Gail’s hips through the faded pink coat, even as the older woman’s hand unerringly finds her waist and trails upward over consecutive ribs. Steph’s midriff is bare under her jacket, and the gentle pressure from the cool pads of Gail’s exploring fingers on soft skin makes her gasp before she can stop herself.

The smug look on Gail’s face as she pulls back cracks her up, and arm in arm they wobble off into the night howling with private laughter.

 

 

*

 

The miners return to work on a Monday. It’s a day that most will remember either as a milestone victory over the ungrateful working class, or a shameful concession to private greed. Steph - never one to bypass a sense of occasion - has spent the morning swearing at her kettle, when Joe rings her from a phone box in King’s Cross.

 

“Alright, Bromley?”

He looks a bit shell-shocked, perched on the edge of his low stool in the pub like he’s ready to turn and bolt. “I left. Just now, this afternoon. And I went to see Gethin in hospital – Sian took me. I’m so sorry; I didn’t know anything had happened until she told me.”

Steph shrugs, “No-one blames you, Joe. I went round your house to let you know about Gethin and your mum wouldn’t even let me in the door. So I knew either she’s running a secret suburban branch of the Burnley supporters club or you’d been found out.”

“Where’s Burnley?”

“Doesn’t matter, if anyone tries to take you there just run away. Anyway what’s Sian doing taxi-ing you around London?”

“I went to Wales this morning; I heard about the strike ending and, I don’t know, I just wanted to say thank you, I suppose. Then Sian dropped me off in the van and I accidentally came out at my nephew’s christening in front of everyone my parents know.”

It’s a good thing Steph has never worried about appearing overly ladylike as this causes her to ungraciously snort into her pint. While she’s trying to get beer out of her sinuses Joe continues, “I can’t go back. Can I stay with you just tonight? Tomorrow I can look for somewhere, but it’s just I don’t know London that well and the banks are shut now -”

Steph cuts him off. “There’s to be no nudity in communal areas, because I cannot be doing with that, and you are henceforth in charge of food preparation, Mr. Catering College.” His expression makes her feel like a lesbian Santa Clause. Now that would be a cultural myth she could buy into. “Stay as long as you want.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He looks like he’s going to say something grateful and profound and she holds up a hand to stall him. “I mean it. Another time honoured tradition of the homosexually inclined: we look after our own, ok?”

“Can I at least buy you a drink or something then?”

Steph sniffs and selects cigarette from the packet. “Well I suppose, if you must.”

Smiling sheepishly he stands up with their empty glasses. She pauses lighting up to call after him, “Also, nothing says gratitude like a packet of crisps.”

 

When Bromley inevitably asks after Mark, Steph isn’t all that surprised. For obvious reasons Mark doesn’t quite do it for her, but on an intellectual level she can appreciate a good leather jacket and an accent that reminds her the world still exists beyond Southern England.

“Mark’s gone AWOL.” Mike has been sitting in her flat for three weeks alternately plotting to bring down the government and sabotaging her electrical appliances with his endless tea-making. “Gethin’s not really up to doing much, Jeff is going out with some guitarist who is apparently too famous to be named, and Reggie and Ray haven’t been round in a while. Probably defected to Lesbians Against Pit Closures.”

“They’re still fundraising?”

“Well, no, not now no-one’ll accept the money. But they’ve kicked off a pretty vicious leafleting campaign, and I heard Stella berating a copper in Soho from three streets away so the Coal Board are really on the ropes. We might have created a monster there...”

 

 

*

 

 

1985 London Pride isn’t something she is ever going to forget. The whole thing has an air of significance beyond the usual extravagantly sequinned piss-up: one of those strange bookend moments somewhere between a grand encore and the beginning of something else entirely.

“For something to begin anew, there first must be an ending.” The fact that Dai has to bellow over the music booming in the club basement subtracts slightly from his usual gravitas.

“There is no final victory, there is no final defeat: there is only the same battle to be fought over and again.” He nods solemnly at her and drinks deeply from his pint. “So toughen up. Bloody toughen up!”

Steph nods back. It’s a good thing she’s taking this solidarity thing seriously because she has no idea what the fuck he’s on about. She’s completely forgotten what she asked him in the first place. “Is that Morrissey?”

His eyebrows practically meet in the middle as he has to think about it. “Tony Benn, I think.”

“Right, I always get them two mixed up. So we can retire now is what you’re saying?”

“That’s the last thing I’m saying.” He grips her shoulder and his eyes are kind. “You give them hell, Steph.”

On that subject she briefly considers raising the topic of the dire marital sex apparently plaguing the Swansea countryside, but thinks better of it. Margaret seems happy enough after all.

 

Mike and Mark are dancing at what looks to Steph’s trained eye to be a cautiously optimistic distance, and when he catches her looking Mike grins broadly and waves her over, miming the words booming over the speakers.

_‘.. My sister looks cute in her braces and boots, a handful of grease in her hair.’_

The sky is beginning to lighten by the time the final club closes and bars the doors behind them with a palpable sense of relief.

As they stumble out in twos and threes voices rise echoing in the still air of the narrow street.

“Right. Where the fuck are we?”

“You coming back to ours, Mark?”

“Has anyone seen Gwen?”

Jonathan is attempting a wobbly headcount of his houseguests. Gethin smiles to himself while he smokes, gazing up at the darkly pale sky.

“Alright there, love? Where are we going now then?” Gail loops her arms around Steph from behind and leans her chin on her shoulder. The morning air is cool and Gail’s breath is warm on her ear, and it’s nice standing there while around them groups linger chatting and laughing and swaying. The street is littered with torn paper streamers and the occasional sparkle of glitter, to be lost to the foot traffic and street cleaners when Sunday wakes up.

Joe offers her his arm like he’s fucking Prince Charles, and she rolls her eyes for good measure as she accepts it.

They start walking towards Piccadilly when Mike puffs up next to them muttering something about the night bus. Then Jonathan’s voice is approaching behind shepherding the remaining miners’ wives, and Margaret wordlessly takes her spare arm.

They make an odd procession, Steph can’t help thinking, meandering down the cobbles trying to squeeze the last drops of night from the early amber rising slow in the East. It’s not gone while they’re still here and laughing softly in the still air; that precious gasp of _something_ that they found, or brought, somewhere between the valleys and the tower blocks, and the Pennines.

 

 


End file.
